


Absolution

by Calais_Reno



Series: May 4 [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Amnesia, Angst with a Happy Ending, Don't copy to another site, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Healing, M/M, POV Sherlock Holmes, Post-Reichenbach, Sherlock is a Good Boyfriend
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-30
Updated: 2018-12-30
Packaged: 2019-09-30 14:09:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17225492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calais_Reno/pseuds/Calais_Reno
Summary: Sherlock's POV, after his return.This will make more sense if you've read Part 1: Memento Mori.





	Absolution

“I’m sorry, John.” I’ve said it many times since my return.

The response is always the same. A smile, eyes crinkling with fond amusement. “You berk. What have you done now?”

The guilt is overpowering, the apologies unintentionally welling from my own distress, seeking some way to atone. It’s selfish, really, to keep apologising.

So I smile back and say something affectionate. “Just a preemptive apology, love. I’m sure to do something today that will deserve it.”

Every time John laughs and says, “No worries. I’ve already forgotten whatever deserved apology yesterday.”

If the worst part of John’s amnesia is that I have to keep repeating the same things every day, that repetition hardly seems a sufficient penance. The blessing is that most of the time, he isn’t aware that he is damaged.

There is no absolution.

 

Keeping John safe was the whole point of my deception. I’ve been back for weeks now, and it’s clear that John will never be safe.

I blame Mycroft for keeping it from me, for not seeing how serious the damage was.

“He seemed fine,” Mycroft explained. “Even the doctors didn’t realise the extent of it. He spent two months in hospital and went back to Baker Street. Didn’t talk much, but we all assumed that was normal. Molly and Lestrade and I all popped in regularly to check on him. I recommended that he see his counsellor and he said he would, but never made an appointment. He’s a very private person, as you know, very stoic, very stubborn. You can’t tell John Watson what to do. We all thought he was grieving you— in his own way. We had no idea he didn’t remember what happened.”

Lestrade confirmed this. “Looking back, we should have noticed,” the DI said. “I suppose it was hard talking to him about what had happened, so we just kept our conversations superficial. It was Molly who finally figured it out and brought him to the doctor. When they said _amnesia_ , we could hardly believe it. He seemed so normal.” _Or whatever might pass for normal after seeing your best friend die_.

Brain damage. John, damaged.

“You should have told me,” I said to Mycroft. “You were the only one who knew how to contact me. I would have come back.”

“There was no need.” Mycroft was adamant. “What could you have done?”

“I would have taken care of him.”

“You’ve destroyed Moriarty’s network, taken the target off his back and your own. That is what you set out to do, and you’ve succeeded. Had you returned early, you would have endangered not only yourself, but him as well. And Lestrade, and Mrs Hudson. And now, perhaps, you can best take care of John by finding a place for him.”

“A _place_?” I glare at him. “I’m not putting him away in some institution.”

“You can’t watch him every minute. This last incident nearly proved fatal.”

“I will take care of him.”

“And the work? Your life?”

“ _He_ is my life.”

 

I have my own healing to do, I suppose. John is still surprised by the scars, when he feels them on my back. I explain just enough to stop his questions — and his tears. I am endlessly patient with his surprise, his sorrow. My own sorrow is also endless.

“You should have told me,” John says every day. “You shouldn’t have been alone. I would have gone with you.”

This is the discussion I expected to have on returning home, reassuring John that I’d had no choice, that I couldn’t tell him, that it was necessary to keep him in the dark about it. Every day it breaks my heart to have to say it all again.

As my scars heal, John begins to seem less worried. As a doctor, he can tell that the scars are old, and though they puzzle him, he accepts my reassurance. “It was a long time ago, John. All healed now.”

And John looks puzzled for a while, but then seems to forget.

But somewhere in his subconscious, it is clear that he still feels the trauma of what he can’t remember.

At times he is panicked, looking through the flat to find me, thinking I might have left without telling him. I can hardly blame him for that. He used to complain that he never knew where I was, that I kept him in the dark too much. Now, I cannot afford to worry him this way.

He tracks me down in the shower this time. 

“You all right?” he calls through the door.

“I’m fine— just having a shower,” I call back. I rinse myself under the spray, dry myself quickly. When I finally come out, wrapped in a towel, he’s waiting outside the door.

His hands go to my head, his expression worried, and he feels my skull. It is as if he can remember seeing it hit the pavement, as if that were the last image imprinted on his brain before his own injury. “I thought…” his voice trails off, but the worry does not leave him. “I thought you were hurt.”

“Just a dream, John,” I tell him every time. “You’ve had that one before. I’m fine, love.”

We lie in bed together, his head on my chest, and he sleeps again. In the morning, he wakes smiling. And I wind my arms around my soldier and kiss him.

 

We eat breakfast and go for a walk. When we return to the flat, we sit, John reading a medical journal or a newspaper or a spy novel. He might read the same thing for days, never knowing his eyes have run over the same sentences multiple times. In like manner, we have lived the same day over and over, and John is happy. I desperately want him to be happy.

“He remembers bits,” Molly tells me. We’ve just watched John fall asleep in his chair. I took him on an extra long walk around the park because the weather is fine, crisp and cold, and the trees are just beginning to drop their leaves. John remarked that it’s been a mild autumn; five minutes later, as the wind began to whip through the trees, tearing a few leaves from the branches, he remarked that the autumn has been unusually cold.

“I miss him,” I admit to Molly. My eyes tear up as I say this. I have reconciled myself to John’s amnesia, but it doesn’t make it any less painful. “He doesn’t talk much. Not like he used to. It’s like… he’s not all there.”

“Sherlock, you’re doing everything you can for him. You stay with him, keep him busy, talk to him. And you’re so patient, repeating everything when he forgets. He knows you. He knows you love him. That’s important.”

“He knows me, but his mind is stuck three years in the past.”

“He’ll probably never remember the events surrounding your fall,” she admits.

“My death,” I say. “It traumatised him. It’s lodged somewhere in his memory. He lived through it, but can’t process it.”

Molly nods. “He started out not remembering any of it, but gradually began to figure things out,” she says. “He knows that something happened, and as time passes, parts of it may come back. He’s told me about you falling, though he doesn’t understand why he thinks that happened. It comes and goes.”

“In some ways, I hope he never remembers that,” I say. “If he starts remembering, he might be angry with me. And sad. I just want him to be happy.”

She looks over at John, asleep in his chair. “I think he is. Just having you here is good for him. We struggled to make him understand, to get him to accept a minder, but he couldn’t. He never forgot you, always remembered that you loved him.”

At least he remembers that much. I could not imagine being a complete stranger to him. His smile every morning— that’s what I live for now.

 

He smiles easily these days. And he cries. He never used to cry. Always the soldier, stoic and self-controlled. I see him startle sometimes, realising that there are tears falling from his eyes. _I’m sad and I don’t know why,_ he says. And I don’t know how to answer him.

 

We spend a lot of time in pawnshops, looking at rings. Every morning, John notices that his Victorian skull ring is gone. It upsets him. It was a gift from me, the Christmas before I broke everything good in his life. He doesn’t remember that, but he remembers his ring, and he panics when he sees it’s missing. “Where did I put it? I can’t remember!” And he cries.

The logical answer is that in the months he was living on the streets, someone stole it. Or perhaps it fell off his finger and went down a grate. He is still terribly thin, even after weeks of me urging biscuits on him. He forgets to eat. But he doesn’t forget his ring.

So we visit pawnbrokers. I ask the dealer I bought it from to look out for it. He says he’ll talk to other shops, let them know I’ll pay their price.

John browses, looking at the pocket watches and antiques. For the moment, he’s forgotten about the ring. I’ve lied to him, told him we sent it to be cleaned.

He smiles, looking at a pocket watch with a ship engraved on the cover. “My grandfather had one like this,” he says. “He used to let me hold it when I was small. I wonder whatever happened to it.”

When he turns to look at a case of antique guns, I buy it for him.

 

We meet Mike Stamford for lunch. John takes out his new pocket watch and shows it to him. “It belonged to my grandfather,” he says proudly.

“It’s beautiful,” Mike says, beaming at John.

“Sherlock found it,” John says, giving me a fond look. “It was in a pawnbroker’s shop. I guess nothing ever really gets lost. Things just get misplaced.”

 _Interesting,_ I think. The memory of his grandfather showing him the watch was undamaged, intact. And yet, somehow it’s managed to attach itself to a different tangible object.An hour ago, John wondered where the watch had ended up. Now, he thinks he’s holding it in his hand. And he remembers me giving it to him. _Curious._

 

Memories are housed in many ways. Sometimes a fragrance can recall a lost memory. A melody can bring it back. An object might evoke it. Scientists map our brains, seeking to understand where these memories reside, study people like John to fill in the map. The palace of John’s mind has no new rooms. New memories are sent away: _addressee unknown_.

 _But what if the mind is not a palace?_ What if it’s a garden? Or a book? Or a tree? Or an entire city?

What if it’s a crime scene?

I think of all the times I patiently explained clues to John. I remember the look of astonished delight that used to come over his face when understood.

And I recall a particular incident, years ago. John was on his way out to the store. I had just heard him open the front door, heard the slam as it closed. Then I heard him pounding back up the stairs and saw him standing in the kitchen, frowning.

“What’s the matter?”

“Should have made a list,” John had muttered, looking around the cabinets. “Forgot what I meant to buy.”

I snorted. “Well, you didn’t tell me. Don’t expect me to know what you were thinking—”

“I don’t. I just thought if I came back to the place where I thought of it— Aha!”

And he was off again, pounding back down the stairs. I never learned what he’d left off the list or what association brought it back to him.

That’s what it is. John is looking for what he’s lost; he just needs something to jog his memory. He remembers me giving him the watch and his mind has connected the dots, explaining how his grandfather’s watch ended up in a pawnbroker’s shop. It’s not just any watch; he has an emotional connection. Confabulation, it’s called: the mind weaves together a story using the clues it has.

_Plant the clues; he’ll figure it out._

 

We do the same things each day, and John is content. I want John to be happy forever, to hear him giggle every day, and am not sure how to achieve that. I need help.

The next day, during John’s home therapy appointment, I visit the humane shelter, looking for a small dog. I meet a feisty terrier who thinks he's a big dog. _Just like my John_ , I think when I see the pup in a cage by himself. I pick him up, look into his eyes and explain to him how he can help. He licks his nose, sneezes. I take that as a _yes._

John is delighted, names him Augie.

The next day, he is delighted again, names him—

“You look like an Augie,” he decides, holding the dog’s nose to his own. “Yeah, Augie.” The dog licks John’s nose. He giggles.

The third day he wakes up and hears toenails on the wooden floor in the hallway. “Augie!” he calls.

After a week, he’s waking up and looking for the leash. “I have to walk Augie.”

I go with him most days, just to observe his interactions with the small canine. He baby-talks to the dog, picks him up when other dogs approach, tells him, _I’m your daddy, Sherlock is your papa._ He promises he can sleep in our bed if he’s a good boy.

He is completely besotted with this tiny tyrant.

Augie adores John, regards me with some wariness. He sleeps in our bed whether he’s a good boy or not. He learns not to lie between us.

The dog and I have an understanding. We share John. _Don’t let Daddy get lost. Keep him safe. He belongs to us._

I let Augie take John for a walk. Trailing behind, I keep an eye on them, watching to see what will happen if John starts to go astray. I follow, a bit nervous as they leave the usual route. But Augie knows when it’s time to head home, and he knows the way there. When John hesitates, he barks and pulls on the leash. John follows.

We bring Augie with us wherever we go. Angelo lets him sit under our table and brings him his own small plate of meatballs. Shops don’t mind as long as he stays inside John’s jacket. If anyone does object, I have an official document to show them. He is an _assistance dog_ as far as the British government is concerned. Having a brother who _is_ the British government is sometimes useful.

John still loves a crime scene, holds his dog and explains it all to him. Lestrade and the other Yarders smile and scratch Augie’s ears if John says they can. Doing the Work lets me feel useful, too, even though my attention is mostly focused on John. Lestrade invites us, and I decide whether it’s a good day, a good case for us. He understands.

There have to be some adjustments, and I work them out as time passes. John depends on me, and I depend on Augie. I turn down cases that might be dangerous. John always loved those cases, is still rather an adrenaline junkie, but he cannot carry a gun now, and he can’t afford to lose me. We have a memory bank full of nights running after suspects, jumping across rooftops, cornering culprits in alleys — it’s all right. I am a consultant, after all, and there are still plenty of interesting puzzles to solve. We consult, we reminisce, and John does not know if it was last week or years ago.

It’s a good day, a routine case, and I’m studying footprints, trying to understand how they suddenly vanish. Another set is fifty feet away, near the tyre tracks. Unless the woman was an acrobat—

John is introducing himself to Constable Nunley— again. She’s young and pretty and clearly likes John. They’ve met before, but he doesn’t know that. He’s letting her pet Augie, telling her how he keeps removing Christmas ornaments from the lower branches of our tree and hiding them under the bed.

She is desperately trying not to flirt with him. With women, flirting is John’s default mode. He doesn’t mean anything by it, and everyone knows this. Constable Nunley had to learn the hard way. I’m afraid I was rather angry with her when she extended an invitation to him.All the Yarders within earshot were signalling her frantically, but it was only when I glared at her and snatched him away that someone explained it to her. Now when he introduces himself to her, she is polite, talks about her boyfriend. I’m not sure whether said boyfriend is real, or if she invented him specifically for my benefit and John’s. She does not invite him for coffee.

As I’ve said, John doesn’t know he’s flirting. Women smile at him on the street; he smiles back. Other than putting a tattoo across his forehead— _TAKEN—_ I’m not sure what I can do about it. I stay close, hold his hand, kiss him often.

 

John loves Christmas, so we’re having a party. For three weeks we’ve been decorating. It isn’t that we have so many decorations or such a big flat, it’s just a way of setting up the environment so that John will remember things. We do a little bit each day, stretch out the possibility that he will remember Christmas is coming. I keep a large calendar on the door of the loo, another in the kitchen, crossing off each day before I go to bed. When I returned from being dead, the calendar in the kitchen still read _May 4._ Visual cues are important. It doesn’t take a genius to understand this.

The date of our party is circled in red, a reminder written: _December 22. S & J Party_.

I’ve started a list on the refrigerator where we’re noting foods to prepare or buy. Mrs Hudson added several types of biscuits she intends to bake. Molly was over and wrote in something called Sausage Rolls and something else called Holiday Fajitas.

Lestrade stops by, sees the list, and volunteers to make Rum Punch. He tells me that his Rum Punch is famous. I ask him to bring extra juice so I can dilute John’s cup.

“Who’s this?” John asks, pointing at something I scrawled on the list. “Did we invite someone named Samosas?”

“That’s Anderson,” I tell him. “He told me he’d make samosas. Who knew he could cook?”

“We invited him?”

“In the spirit of _Peace on Earth, Goodwill to All People_ , yes.”

“Ah, that explains Mycroft,” he says. “Looks like he’s bringing a Christmas pudding.”

The day of the party, Mrs Hudson vacuums and helps us arrange the chairs. As the hour approaches, John and I change into our holiday finery. I’ve given him a red waistcoat embroidered with holly, and a bowtie that lights up. Augie is also wearing a bowtie, and a tartan vest. I wear my usual dark suit with the red shirt John picked out.

“Come here,” I say, drawing him towards me. I place a Santa hat on his head and kiss him. “I love you.”

He kisses me back. I wonder what he’s thinking, what he remembers. Last Christmas he was alone, sleeping in boxes, eating at charity kitchens. He didn’t understand what had happened. I imagine him a year ago, waking each morning in a strange world where 221B Baker Street didn’t exist, where he couldn’t find me, knew something had happened, but had to puzzle through the clues every day, reaching no conclusion. He’s told me a few times, _I thought you had died._ He says this with amazement, as if he can’t understand why he would think this. He has never blamed me, not even when he wakes in the dark from another nightmare about me falling.

“I love you, too,” he says. “Why are you crying?”

I hold him close, whisper in his ear. “I always thought I’d be alone. I never believed anyone could love me this much.”

“I do love you,” he says. He frowns and chews his lip. “I think… I forgot to buy you a Christmas present.”

“No,” I reassure him. “You didn’t forget.”

His face smoothes out. “I guess we’ll both be surprised when you open it.”

The bell is ringing and people are arriving. We go to greet our guests.

 

I watch him talking to Lestrade. John is smiling, relaxed, holding Augie and sipping a cup of the punch which I diluted before handing to him. They’re talking about dogs. John is describing how Augie is jealous when we have sex. “He thinks we’re playing a game and doesn’t like being left out.”

Lestrade snorts. “You could just put him out of the room.”

“Then he cries. We reached a compromise, got him a little bed of his own for when we’re shagging. He accepts it, but looks offended.”

Lestrade laughs. “He’s got _you_ well-trained, John.”

Donovan and Anderson are avoiding one another. She sidles over to me, smiling. “Nice party,” she says. No _freak_ tacked on, as she usually does.

“Thank you.” I remember to smile. John reminded me to smile when I was fixing his tie for him.

“How is he doing?”

“Pretty well,” I say. And he is, mostly. “I can’t say he’s getting better, but I’m figuring out ways to help.”

She smiles. “The dog is brilliant.”

“He never forgets Augie.”

“So he can form new memories,” she says.

I nod. “If properly motivated and given the right cues, he can.”

“When you came back,” she says, “how did you expect him to react?”

“I didn’t know about the accident. I suppose I expected him to be angry.” What I don’t say: _He should have been angry. I wish he had hit me._

“He never knew you’d been gone,” she says.

I shake my head. “No, he didn’t.”

Reading something in my expression, she rises up on her toes and places a kiss on my cheek. “I think you’re a pretty great boyfriend, Sherlock. We all suspected you were together, you know. I warned him about you, told him you were a sociopath, but I was wrong. You’re not a freak.”

I’m embarrassed to find my eyes filling with tears again. She squeezes my arm.

Mrs Hudson has had several cups of punch. She hugs and kisses me and points out that John is standing under the mistletoe, looking quite unaware that he is a target for kisses. I see Constable Nunley smile at him; she moves in the opposite direction. Anderson begins talking to her, cornering her in a discussion about his latest conspiracy theory.

I get to John before anyone notices and kiss him thoroughly. “You might want to stand somewhere else,” I say. “Unless you want Anderson to kiss you.” He giggles. Mrs Hudson drags him to the couch and begins a long story about mistletoe that involves her nephew, a bottle of tequila, and a tube of glue.

“Nice party,” Molly says. “He’s enjoying himself.”

“This is an experiment,” I tell her. I can say things like that to Molly and she will understand.

“Oh?” She smiles up at me. “What’s your hypothesis?”

“There’s something I want him to remember. It’s already happened, but I’m thinking about how I can make sure he remembers. Setting is important, you know. And repetition.”

Mycroft approaches. He is smirking because everyone loved his pudding. Naturally, no one suspects that he made it himself. I know that he did.

He does not mention the thing we talked about a week ago. “You’re still planning to spend Christmas with Mummy and Daddy?”

“Yes. I assume you will be there as well,” I reply.

“Does he remember them?”

As parents go, mine are no more annoying than any others, I suppose. Before my fall, it had never seemed important for them to know John. We had dinner, once.

Now, it _is_ important, I’ve decided.

People are comfortable, sated, having another cup of punch. I stand before the hearth, tap a fork against my glass, the bell-like sound letting them know that I intend to make an announcement.

“John and I want to thank you all for coming to our little soiree. You are our friends, and as such, we like having you around us at times like this. I would like to propose a toast: _to loved ones._ ”

They raise their glasses, saying _hear, hear. To loved ones._

Once glasses are lowered, I go on. “John and I have decided to give one another a special gift this year, and it must involve you. Come here, John.”

John is looking at me, a puzzled smile on his face. He gets up from the couch and walks towards me, his eyes signalling. _He doesn’t remember— yet._

I take the rings out of my pocket and place on his finger the gold skull ring I had commissioned, a replica of the one he lost. I’ve had it engraved with our initials and the date we met. “You’ve already said _yes_ , John, but I’ll ask you again. Will you marry me?”

“My ring!” He flushes and his eyes fill with tears, just as they have the last three times I asked him. “Yes,” he chokes.

I put my ring in his hand. It matches his, but in white gold. He looks at it and then up at me. Tears are running down his face. He smiles as if he doesn’t quite believe it. “Sherlock, will you marry me?”

“I will, John.”

We kiss and everyone cheers and claps. “We were married in the registrar’s office three weeks ago,” I tell them. “Today, we’re sharing it with you all. On January 29, the anniversary of the day we first met, you are all invited back here, where a brief ceremony will be followed by a small reception.”

Everyone needs to give us hugs and fervent handshakes. _It’s a dress rehearsal_ , I think.

Mike Stamford is grinning at me, his round face beaming as if he orchestrated the whole thing. In a way, he is responsible. Coincidence, perhaps, but a fortunate one. “Thank you, Mike,” I say as he attempts to shake my hand free of my elbow joint.

“He’s so much better,” he tells me, looking across the room at John, who is being hugged within an inch of his life by Mrs Hudson. My brother steadies her as she lets go and nearly lands on the floor. “Do you think he’ll remember?”

“I hope so. Even if he doesn’t, being married gives us some rights that we need, if I’m to take care of him properly.”

He nods. “You worry about him.”

 _Obviously, I worry._ I don’t say this. “He worries too. I’m hoping the ring will remind him.”

He pats my shoulder. “You’re a good man, Sherlock.”

Mycroft appears at my elbow. “A word, brother.”

We step over to the window. I look out, see snow falling. “Have you talked to Mummy?” I ask.

He nods. “She understands and, considering the circumstances, has agreed not to insist on a large wedding. She warned me that there will be a party at some point, however.”

“All right,” I concede. “I suppose that is all we can expect. Maybe we can put her off until summer, at least. Will they come in January, then?”

“Of course. And there will be a small article in the society pages.”

“Fine. When she said she was boycotting our party unless we agreed to a big wedding, I really wouldn’t have cared if they refused to attend, you know. All I care about is that John will remember.”

“Don’t get your hopes up, brother mine. Brain damage doesn’t just heal itself.”

“Perhaps not, but the human brain has an almost infinite capacity to rewire itself. That is what I am attempting to do, to imprint enough reminders in his brain that he will not forget that we are married.”

He nods. “I hope you are right.”

“Well,” I say. “It’s either this or Plan B.”

He frowns. “Plan B?”

“Tattoo: _I am married to Sherlock Holmes._ The only question is, where would be the best location for such a tattoo?”

“The heart, I should think.”

I smile. “He’s rather hairy, you know.”

“Is he?” My brother’s eyebrow quirks upwards. “Perhaps you’ll take him somewhere warm for a sex holiday and share with us some photos of him in a bathing costume.”

“Not a chance,” I say, grinning. “Keep your dirty mind off of my doctor.”

He smiles. “I do not covet my brother-in-law, Sherlock. And he does not need a tattoo to tell the world he belongs to you.”

 

The following morning, John wakes up, grins and greets me with a kiss. “Good morning, boyfriend,” he teases.

“You can no longer call me that, husband,” I inform him.

“Husband?” He is puzzled, but smiling.

I hold his hand, kiss his ring. He sees the ring on his hand, the one on my hand, gapes for a moment, then kisses me. “We’re married,” he says tearfully. “We’re really married.”

“Indeed we are. Till death do us part.”

“Oh, Sherlock. I love you so much.”

 

Five weeks after Christmas, our flat is once again full of friends. This time, my parents are also present, as well as John’s sister Harry, and a friendly priest that we met on a case once. For the sake of peace with my mother, I asked him and he agreed.

Once again, we are dressed up (no blinking bowties this time), John holds the dog, and we receive our guests. Ten minutes before we begin the ceremony, I ask John to give me his ring. He looks at his hand in surprise, then smiles. _He almost remembers._

“I’ll give it back to you in a bit,” I promise.

Two minutes later, he comes to me, distressed. “I’ve lost my ring,” he says.

“I have it,” I assure him. “We’re getting married in a few minutes, love.” I keep him at hand until we’re ready to begin.

In the presence of our friends and family, we stand before the hearth and say our vows. John was able to write his own, but the priest has to prompt him now. He is nervous, a bit teary. Once more, we place our rings on each other’s hands. We kiss, everyone cheers and claps. Champagne is poured, Angelo’s excellent food served.

My mother kisses John on both cheeks, holds him at arm’s length to examine him. He glances at me, signalling confusion.

“Mummy, don’t scrutinise him so,” I say, interposing myself between them. “It’s not as if you have any say. We’re married.”

“I was just wondering,” she says, smiling at me, “How did you ever convince such a handsome man to marry you? And he’s a doctor! The ladies must all be mourning his departure from the ranks of the eligible.”

John blushes down to his roots. “Thank you for being here today.”

Harry is telling a story to everyone about when John was a baby and used to strip off his nappy at every opportunity.

John pulls me aside. “No more booze for her. Next she’ll be telling everyone how I tried to dissect her teddy bear.”

“I always knew he’d be a doctor,” she’s saying. Her cheeks are as red as John’s are about to turn. “I had a stuffed bear and he decided it needed a new heart, so—”

“Harry,” I say, steering her to the food table. “Let’s have some pie, shall we?”

She looks annoyed, but then smiles and takes my arm. “All right, Sherlock.” She’s suddenly hugging me. “Thank you for taking care of him. He’s my only brother and, no matter how much we fight, I do love him. I’m just shite at showing it.”

“Well, now you have me as well. Brother-in-law. Which gives me the legal right to make you behave, dear sister. No more embarrassing stories today.”

“Today, perhaps,” she says, smiling. “No long-term promises, though.”

Molly is slicing the mince pie. She gives a slice to Harry and they sit down for a chat.

John is talking to Mycroft. He looks a bit stressed, so I steer him into the bedroom for a quick snog.

“Sherlock,” he says when we come up for air. “I was wondering.”

“Yes, love?” I nibble his ear lobe.

The nibbling makes him giggle. “I have the strangest feeling that we’ve done this before.”

“What, snogging? Of course we have, love. It’s a daily affair around here.” I lean in for another round.

“No. I mean—” he frowns and chews his lip. “I seem to remember this. The rings, the people watching… It’s like deja vu.”

“You’re remembering the Christmas party. We’d already been before the registrar, but announced that we were married then. Our Christmas presents were the rings.”

He nods. “I thought so.”

Augie is barking outside the door, unhappy to be excluded from whatever his Papa is up to with his Daddy.

“Shall we?” I say.

He smiles. “Of course, husband.”

 

Everyone takes leftovers and leaves us with congratulations and best wishes. Lestrade and Molly are the last to go. While John goes to find their coats, they look expectantly at me.

“So? Does he remember?”

“He does. Not in detail, but he said he was having deja vu.”

Molly nods, smiling. “Valentine’s Day is in two weeks. Another party?”

“That might be a bit soon,” I said. “I’m trying to maximise his retrieval strength using spaced repetition. When I first asked him, it was several times a day, then every day, then every other day. We went to the registrar’s office three weeks before Christmas. After that, I stood with him before the hearth and asked him to marry me. We repeated this every few days until the party. Since the party, we’ve stood at the fireplace and talked about the wedding. I’ve used pictures from the party to remind him. We practiced saying vows a few times. Each time I recorded it, and then played them back when we wrote our vows. His retrieval time has improved with each repetition, so I’ve gradually spaced reminders out. The last time I mentioned what would happen today was last night, when we were going to bed. The time before that was a week ago. Now I will begin gradually lengthening the interval again. If he begins forgetting, I’ll arrange another party.”

“Trust you to find a scientific answer to love,” Lestrade says.

“It’s not an answer to love,” I say. “It’s just a way to improve memory. I don’t want him to ever worry about us.”

John returns with two coats. “I forgot that we hung yours in the hall closet.”

“And then you remembered,” says Molly. She squeezes him tightly and kisses him.

“You’d better be careful,” he says, grinning. “I’m no longer available. And I have a very jealous husband.” 

 

The days that follow our wedding are fascinating. I continue to chart his ability to remember and any variables that seem to affect it. When he’s tired, he is more likely to forget. When I’ve been out for a bit, he seems worried. I see him looking at his ring sometimes, smiling. I’ve promised him a sex holiday when the weather gets warmer. He favours Greece, which he remembers visiting while at uni.

My mother has planned a reception for us in June. I told her that we’d be happy to restate our vows. She’s having an outdoor fireplace installed where we can stand. She’s very proud that she thought of this herself. We’ll invite all our friends, and she’s kept her guest list limited. Just two hundred, she says.

I put a picture of us in our wedding finery on the mantel.

John’s memory improves as long as we practice. I weave his training into conversation, asking him about things we did or talked about a day ago, two days ago, a week ago. I make sure he sleeps well, eats well, and doesn’t worry excessively.

We have a healthy sex life. Surprisingly, his memory is best during his refractory period, when we cuddle and talk softly about whatever drifts through our minds.

One night as I’m falling asleep, he lays his head on my chest and asks, “Why did you do it?”

I know at once what he is asking. I’ve been waiting a long time for this question, and he deserves an honest answer. “At the time, it seemed necessary. I did not want you to die, even if it meant you never forgave me and I lost you. I never expected you to be hurt. I would have come home at once if I’d known, but Mycroft made sure I wasn’t told. He was right, I suppose, since there was little I could have done, but I still regret not being here.”

He sighs and I feel tears land on my chest. “I’m sorry you had to make such a terrible choice.” He raises his head and looks at me. “You blame yourself, but it’s not your fault. And even if it were, I forgive you.” With his index finger, he traces a cross on my forehead. “I absolve you of all blame. Amen.”

“Thank you,” I say. _Absolution._ I feel something lighten inside my chest. “I’ll never leave you again.”

“I’ll never let you,” he says. “And I’ll never forget you, either.”

Running my hand through his hair, feeling his precious head, I smile. “I’ll make sure you don’t.”

**Author's Note:**

> May 4 is the ACD canon date for the Reichenbach Fall.
> 
> Anterograde amnesia is the inability to form new memories.  
> Disclaimer: I am not a doctor or specialist in these matters. I have used artistic license in writing this story. The memory techniques described are research-based, though not proven with amnesia patients. One day, I hope.


End file.
